Delicacy of Mind
by LJ Summers
Summary: Light, fluffy, SHORT Regency Romance. In which former India merchant Edward meets shiny new heiress Isabella who has been waiting FOREVER to get her London Season. He's far too knowing; she's impulsive and suspicious. Of course, it has to be love! AH
1. Part the First

**A/N: You know how you read that someone's pulled a fic and published it, changing the names from Edward and Bella to Ryan and Sherrie or whatever? Well here, I've done it backward. This is a story I wrote a long time ago to publish as a short story but it lacked a market at the time. I have changed all the names TO Twi-names and am presenting it to you for your entertainment.**

**My thanks to Katmom for giving it a once-over to make sure I didn't leave any "MacNaughtons" lying about...**

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_And to be kept back on such a motive! - I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind. _

_- Elizabeth Bennet in _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen_

_**1 May 1818, London**_

"Well, Marcus, I do hope they got your money's worth," Edward muttered under his breath as he entered St. Pancras Church. An ancient structure, it was still picturesque for a wedding. The matrimonials celebrated here today would be a double wedding and he, Edward Cullen, was not even an invited guest. He came out of sheer distrustful curiosity.

Though he was early, it seemed someone was more curious than even he. A female someone, sitting about three pews back from the stone-stepped dais in the front of the chapel. His steps echoed in the near-empty church, but the woman did not look back. Being thus ignored, he stood right next to her along the side aisle. "Good morning. Are you here to see the nuptials, as well? The Swan daughters?"

The woman stood and Edward did a swift inventory. Of medium height, dark of hair and eye with regular features, she was not a beauty by conventional standards, but she brought an air of assurance with her as she rose and then dropped in a brief curtsy. Her voice was even and utterly commonplace, to his practiced ear. "I am, yes. And yourself as well? Friend of either of the grooms, perhaps?"

"I have no acquaintance with those gentlemen, no. I am merely here to see the young ladies off."

"Friend of the Swan family?" she inquired, her brow lifting slightly. A smile lingered along pink lips, catching his attention.

"Actually, I was just curious."

"Oh?"

He offered her what he hoped was a conspiratorial smile. "Yes. The Swan family recently came into a large fortune, I understand. Though the elder of the sisters is practically on the shelf, both young ladies were betrothed within weeks of their father's inheriting this fortune. I was curious, as I said. What kind of young ladies could only find husbands with such an inducement as twenty thousand pounds?"

He knew it was a mistake as soon as he uttered the words, but there had been something so involved in the woman's expression, so attentive, that he had let his tongue wag on to share what he was truly thinking. Even though it was not fit conversation for a church, not even for a dinner party. It was fit, perhaps, only for White's.

Chagrined, he felt color heating his cheeks, but in the shadowy interior of the venerable edifice, it would not be visible. His embarrassment was not lessened in any manner when the lady smiled slowly into his eyes.

"Perhaps we should be introduced," she said, extending her gloved hand.

He took it firmly in his own. "Yes, indeed. Please forgive me. I am Edward Cullen, recently returned from India. Currently," he added in order to lend himself credence, "I'm residing in Mayfair." He bowed correctly over her hand, lest she think that he had no manners whatsoever. "And you are...?"

"Isabella Swan, sister of the brides."

[xXx]

First, Mr. Cullen clutched her fingers almost spasmodically. Then, he dropped her hand. Isabella withheld the laughter that bubbled within, choosing instead to nod and dip in a very brief curtsy before returning to her seat.

The gossiping, green-eyed Mr. Cullen said not another word but retreated to the very rear of the chapel, which suited Isabella down to the ground. It was tempting to glance back over her shoulder to see how he was taking her nonverbal set-down, but she refrained. Instead, she adjusted the tawny lustring fabric of her gown and reminded herself to wait patiently. Her father had meant well, she was sure, in depositing her here early.

He had handed her up into the barouche that morning, with her maid sitting opposite. "Now then, daughter," he had said. "We have not spent enough time together since you arrived in Town, but I am sure that by this evening we'll have the opportunity to catch up. Will you feel quite safe at the church on your own?"

Isabella leaned forward around the leather side of the barouche's retractable top. "Father, I am twenty-one, not a girl in the schoolroom. I'll be fine."

"Very good then. I will see you at the ceremony." He instructed the coachman to drive on and returned immediately indoors, not even seeing her away.

As a bustling sound from the rear of the chapel reached her, Isabella put her ruminations away and stood to see perfect strangers enter. She knew virtually no one in town, so it was more with curiosity than anything else that she watched those who were guests at her sisters' wedding.

Curiosity. Very much like Mr. Cullen's own, perhaps? She slanted a glance in his direction only to see his auburn head very much turned – to admire the women entering, she supposed.

The gowns on the ladies arriving in the worn wooden pews were much like hers, she judged. She herself had relied on the latest fashion publications from Town in the frenzied week before her leaving the country. Three girls had been brought in as seamstresses to make sure she was outfitted accordingly for what would be, in essence, her first Season. Apparently, she had chosen well.

The grooms entered with the vicar of St. Pancras, standing there at the head of the narrow building. One of them had to be Benjamin Cheney of Hertfordshire, Angela's groom, of whom her father had written. The other would be Jasper Whitlock, Esquire, of County Cork, Ireland. He had been a recent addition to the family party, having had his proposal accepted after Isabella's father had written. A hasty betrothal indeed. Isabella saw the justice, certainly, in Mr. Cullen's remarks. How could she not? She herself knew how very "on the shelf" her sisters had been.

. . .

_**4 March, 1811**_

Still brushing the dust from her riding habit, Isabella met her governess near the shrubbery. "Miss Hale! I rode Chocolate today and did very well!"

Hale, a woman of educated middle years, nodded. "Of course you did. And did you remember not to outdistance your groom?"

The girl blushed. "He caught me quickly, truly he did."

The conversation was conducted entirely in French, as it was the language Miss Isabella was currently studying. However, the governess switched to English as they moved indoors and up to her charge's room to change into a clean dress. "Your parents wish to see you before they leave in the morning for London."

"Are they taking Angela, too?" Isabella sighed, thinking how lonely the house would be over the rest of the spring and into summer.

The governess nodded and followed her charge up the stairs. "Indeed. Your mother says that sixteen is a good age to have some experience of Town, and your sister Alice will certainly appreciate having her."

Pulling off her boots, Isabella could only grunt a soft acknowledgment. "So, when I am sixteen, perhaps I will get to see London, too?"

"As to that, I cannot say. But I think you and I will do well enough here, this year. Who knows, perhaps Alice will receive a proposal and we'll get to go to Town together for her wedding!"

Barefoot and now standing in a corset and pantaloons, thick dark hair in a curtain down her back, Isabella laughed with the idea of it. "That would be splendid!"

Since she had never really put her hopes in this enterprise, she was not at all disappointed that Alice and Angela returned in the summer, with nary a wedding in sight.

. . .

_**1 May 1818**_

It had been years since he had lodged his boot in his mouth quite so thoroughly, and Edward acknowledged that to himself with utter honesty as he sat on the edge of the pew in the rear of the historic chapel. Whether the family had taken immediate and obvious advantage of the inheritance Marcus had left them was none of his concern, in truth. It was legal and even sensible and he, Edward Cullen, had nothing to fault Marc with, since Swan was actually Marcus' nephew and Marc himself had no other family. Who else should inherit a nabob's fortune?

Sniping about young women he had no personal acquaintance with had been foolish in such a place. Sniping about them to their sister was quite possibly disastrous. He had not been in Town long enough to know much of the _Ton_, but if Miss Isabella Swan were so inclined, she could make him rather uncomfortable in society for a time.

Did he try to amend things or did he leave it be, hoping to be forgotten?

Edward snorted softly to himself and stared at his boots until the vicar came in. Time to see the men who were taking advantage of Marcus' money. Men about his age, dressed well enough, he supposed. Looking pleased with themselves, certainly.

Movement behind Edward had him turning to see a lean man with, yes, something of Marc about the eyes and chin. Edward sighed a little. Truly the heir, then. The young ladies with him were utterly entitled to the inheritance.

They did not look fair to match Miss Isabella Swan, who was their sister, however. Oh, they shared the Swan chin, yes. But they appeared markedly older, these two in their silken gowns, walking with their father.

He compared Miss Isabella with them. He could see her as she watched them approach the altar. Where they were dressed in something white, she wore that rich golden color. They had a profusion of ribbons and flounces, of course, as it was their wedding day, but Miss Isabella needed no such furbelows. Her own figure was enough of an adornment to her gown.

Irritated with himself, Edward frowned and sat down to watch the wedding.

. . .

_**5 April 1813**_

"Well?" Alice inquired of their father. As the eldest at nineteen, she claimed her place as representative. "Do we go to Town?"

Father plowed his fingers through his hair. This past year of mourning had been difficult, Isabella understood. Swan Manor without Mother had been...empty. For months, desolation had pressed in from every side, but... But it was spring. The fields were bringing forth new life and she took it as a signal that it was indeed time for life to move forward.

After all, there were still three daughters to marry off. Father would not be able to support them forever, would he?

"Aye, we go to Town. I'll have my solicitor look into a house to rent for the Season."

Isabella felt her pulse leap in her body. She would go to Town! She had never been, but she was sixteen now and Mother had always said –

"– But you'll be staying here, Isabella."

She stared, uncomprehending, at her father. "But, Mother always said that sixteen was a good age to go to Town, to learn about it before coming out," she protested.

Father leapt to his feet, eyes flashing. "Your mother is not here!"

Contrite, Isabella pushed down any further argument. Angela took her by the hand. "Besides, Isabella, we won't be having too many parties or anything, as we've just come out of mourning." She leaned forward a little and whispered, "And, you won't be made to leave if we have any gentleman calling on us!"

A few days later, Isabella watched the carriages take her father and sisters away, as well as their personal servants and prudently-chosen wardrobes and chests. One could not be too careful when trying to attract a husband, she had been told. She had just so wished that she could learn that for herself!

With a heartfelt sigh, she turned to climb the cracking stone steps. "Only one more year until I'm seventeen. Then I'll get to go."

. . .

_**1 May 1818**_

Her sisters were now well and truly married. They waved to her as they left on the arms of their husbands. The wedding luncheon was to be held at the Swan's London house; the servants were even now preparing against the arrival of the guests.

"Well, Isabella, what will we do without them?"

Her father arrived next to her, crooking his arm in invitation for her to take it so that he could escort her from the church. They barely reached the green grass outside the chapel, where the nearby river could be heard rushing along its banks, when they were stopped.

"Mr. Swan, who is your companion? I saw her during the wedding service – lovely service, by the way, and I am sure I am wish them much joy in their marriages – and thought perhaps you had found your consolation for your losses."

Isabella felt herself blush slightly in chagrin. This is what came from not becoming acquainted before one was presented to Society. Even in so sideways a manner as this.

Her father did not seem to notice her discomfort. "Indeed, she is a consolation, Mrs. Stanley. Please accept my introduction of my youngest daughter, Isabella. Isabella, this is Mrs. Jessica Stanley."

Mrs. Stanley's sharp, narrow eyes widened in surprise. "Ah, my good fellow. I didn't know your youngest had become such a fine young woman."

Isabella dipped a curtsey out of respect for an older woman and a friend of the family. A friend she didn't even know. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance," she said.

. . .

_**29 March 1814**_

Isabella crashed a cacophonous chord on the pianoforte, making her governess wince. "Miss Hale, he says I am not to go." She swallowed back a little cry of disappointment and rested her hands in her lap. "Having the youngest daughter out in Society before the eldest is married is bad form, he said." Though her father had so pronounced this as fact, the young woman looked beseechingly to her governess for a contradiction.

It didn't come. "That is a traditional notion," she reminded her student. She had known this would happen.

"It's not fair," the young woman decided, her voice low and rough as she allowed the injustice of it to wash over her. "It's not. Alice had her come-out when she was my age. So did Angela."

"Yet neither have so much as had a marriage proposal, my dear. Your father goes to great expense to see to their future security. To bring you out as well could be injurious to your sisters' chances."

Isabella frowned. "Why?"

Miss Hale gave her a rueful smile. "When there is too much of something, the value is less than if it is more rare, Isabella."

"So I'm staying home to make my sisters appear more _valuable_?" It was past belief, but if her governess – a woman of far experience and wisdom – said so, it must be true.

When the carriages pulled away this year, Isabella remained indoors, doing whitework for a matronly cap. Hopefully, one of her sisters would need it before the summer.

. . .

_**1 May 1818**_

He waited in the verdant shade of a drooping churchyard willow, having decided to make his apologies to Miss Swan. Chatter from older women caught his ear, but his eyes were on the rugged vestibule of the chapel. Swan emerged into the sunlight eventually, his daughter on his arm as a slender, youngish woman hurried ahead to the barouche that had been waiting since he, Edward, had begun his brief vigil. A woman went to speak to them. Edward waited until they were finished talking, smiling, laughing, with the outward courtesies necessary to Society at large.

Stepping forward, he removed his carriage hat. "Mr. Swan. Congratulations on the nuptials of your daughters. I wondered if I might have a word with Miss Swan?"

Swan eyed him quizzically. "And you are...?"

"This is Mr. Edward Cullen, Father. A neighbor of ours on Green Street, it would seem. He is newly returned from India."

Edward felt himself staring at her in sheer appreciation of her aplomb. As if she had known him for weeks, instead of having had to listen to him denigrate her sisters on their wedding day. When Swan coughed, Edward turned his attention.

"Cullen from India? Ah, I had an uncle who was in India," he stated expansively. "Did well for himself."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, well. Isabella, if you've no objection?"

"No, Father."

Relieved, Edward offered her his arm as her father moved ahead to the open barouche. The two of them, he and Miss Swan, followed with slow steps. "I wanted to beg your pardon, Miss Swan, for my heedless remarks, earlier."

He did not dare to look at her, but felt her hesitation before she responded. "No need to apologize for an honest curiosity, Mr. Cullen."

Though he waited, she said nothing more, so he thanked her for her time and handed her up into the carriage where her father and the maid waited. It wasn't until she was driving off that he thought to ask her one more question. "How'd you know I was your neighbor?" he called, belatedly incredulous.

In answer, she put her finger to her lips as the barouche drove around the bend.

[xXx]

"Ah, sister," a melodic masculine voice said, just inside the drawing room.

Isabella started at the claimed relationship, but Mr. Cheney was now her brother-in-law and so was, indeed, entitled. "Mr. Cheney," she said in return. "May I wish you joy?"

He stepped forward, a man in his middle thirties with a pleasant, round sort of face and a slightly receding hairline. His suit was nothing out of the ordinary, being black with trousers as opposed to breeches, which was a little adventurous of him, she supposed. His neckcloth was knotted in what she had learned was an "oriental." He looked, to her eye, subdued and fashionable. Bending over her hand, he assured her he appreciated the wish. "It is good to meet you," he stated. Nodding, he added, "I had heard that Angela's younger sister was still in the country, and I," he added with a self-deprecating smile, "assumed that meant you were still in the schoolroom."

"I assure you I am not, Mr. Cheney. In fact, my governess left me years ago."

He bowed as Angela came down the slightly curving staircase. "Ah, well if we were staying in Town, I am sure your sister and I would be happy to show you around."

Reaching the tiled floor, Angela smiled up at her new husband. Now in a lovely light muslin, she seemed very content to Isabella's view. "Oh, yes. Acquiring some Town bronze is helpful in maneuvering during the Season, Isabella. I _am_ sorry we shan't be able to help! But with Father here, I am sure you won't lack for anything."

Angela tugged her husband through to the dining room, leaving Isabella there to wonder if she had time to change her gown or not.

A bell rang. She supposed the decision had been made for her, as had so many others.

. . .

_**22 January 1815**_

"It was lovely for the vicar to pray for our Miss Hale," Alice remarked as they walked home from the parish church.

Isabella nodded in agreement. "I think she's quite brave to go as a missionary to Africa. I don't think I could ever do such a thing." Miss Hale had said she felt called to go, though, and nothing Isabella had been able to say had turned her an inch from that determination.

"Besides," the older woman had said, a sad sort of smile touching her lips, "You are too old for a governess, my dear. Your father has been kind to keep me on this past year, and we have rubbed along well together, but..."

The sisters discussed this among themselves during the cold walk home. Once they reached their own lane, Isabella moved up to take her father's arm. "So this Spring, Father... Will I be going with you and my sisters to Town? I'll be eighteen, you know. And well able to –."

Her father had glanced over at her and patted her hand. "I am making arrangements for you to attend a Ladies' Academy in York."

"Father!"

He patted her hand again. "It is a genteel place, my dear. I know you've been restless, and I understand that, so this will give you the opportunity to meet young ladies of your age. It will do you good."

Resentment twisted in her middle, begging for expression. Isabella, however, could not say a word beyond, "But –!"

Later that winter, her sisters and father stood on the steps to watch the carriage convey _her_ away from Swan Manor.

. . .

_**1 May 1818**_

Dusk settled lightly over Mayfair as Isabella watched from the front steps. Her maid, Mallory , called, "Miss Swan, you should come in. It isn't done to just stand about here in London like we do at home."

Isabella, though, was tired of being told what she could and couldn't do. "I am within this small excuse for a fence, Mallory ," she responded after counting to ten. "Surely, I shan't come to harm, here. You may stay on the watch, if you would like. Or, better yet, ask my father to do so. He did say he wished to spend some time together this evening."

"I heard from his man that he meant the theatre, miss. Not the street."

Something bitter sat on the end of Isabella's tongue, but she gave it no voice. There was nothing to be gained by sniping at her maid. Still, she remained on the steps until the darkness increased visibly.

A familiar carriage hat atop a familiar auburn-haired fellow rode by as she turned to go inside. She did not choose to acknowledge him.

[xXx]

_**1 May 1818**_

He was still new to White's, so he was pleased enough to find a chair in a corner, near some young bucks who were just now placing odds as to whether it would rain before the morning or not. Ridiculous waste of money, but in his short time in London, Edward had seen much that was ridiculous among this set. Before too long, one of the younger men stopped speculating on the weather long enough to recognize him.

"Cullen, good evening. Care to place a wager on the rain?" The younger man's blue eyes sparked with amusement.

He held up a hand. "No, thank you, Newton. I already lost a private wager with myself once today and don't feel my luck."

"Heard you were watching where your inheritance went?"

Edward slivered a glare at the cheeky speaker. Another youngster who would do well with some time spent aboard a merchant ship. Most of them would do well in that kind of work for a year or three. It did a marvelous job of clearing the mind. "Well I did see where some blunt went, aye," he said slowly, his childhood burr making a slight appearance. "Well enough spent, I daresay."

"Heard too," a mustachioed fellow inserted, "that there's another sister, new-come to Town, who has a fortune of her own, eh? Cullen, you said you saw her?"

Caution kept him brief. "Aye, I did."

Then, a light twinkled in another young man's clear brown eyes. "I know! We can put a wager on the Book! _I_ wager she'll be snared for _her_ twenty-thousand pounds before the month's end."

"Sooner," Edward blurted before he thought.

All eyes in the vicinity turned his way, including some newcomers who – hearing the words _book_ and _wager_ – had hastened to join them.

"Ah, got a march on us then, didn't you?" The young men chortled. "Well, maybe we needn't put the wager in the book, lads. Looks like Cullen has already won!"

Irritated with them, disgusted with himself, Edward shook his head and rose to his feet. One of the staff observed him and immediately retrieved his hat and gloves. Edward put a business-smile on his face. "No, I can assure you I have not."

Still, the young men were speculating as he left them and White's behind him.

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**There are three parts to this little story and they're all written. Honest!**


	2. Part the Second

**A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely comments so far! It's a delight, I must say, to find fans of this type of story in the fandom. :)**

**There are three parts to this little romance, plus a tiny epilogue. It's just a matter, really, of formatting for this venue.**

**Thank you for reading! Always a pleasure to hear from you!**

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_**2 May 1818**_

"I know, Isabella dear, that you're not used to these hours, but did you have to yawn quite so often?"

She looked him in the eye and yawned again. "Father. I do believe I detected a lightening of the horizon. Indicating sunrise. " Her father chuckled and Isabella knew she had hit the proper humor for him. They emerged from their carriage and went up the steps into their rented house. "Perhaps when I've become accustomed to Town ways and manners, I shan't embarrass you."

"You did nothing of the sort, my dear girl." He covered her hand with his own as they paused in the spacious foyer of the townhouse.

Marble tile under her slippered feet. Flowers wilting in small urns. The candles in their sconces were burning low, and the servants looked haggard about the eyes. Inwardly, Isabella winced in pity for them. "Well, I will yawn by myself now, Father. Mallory is waiting, I'm sure, to put me swiftly beyond the reach of further facial disruptions."

"By Jove, but you'll be a fine catch for a man, Isabella," her father said with an explosive sort of laugh. "I know it's not been easy, having to watch your sisters go off to Town year after year, but you have certainly improved yourself splendidly while you were in the country."

Isabella yawned again. Hugely. "Why should I marry, Father? After so many years of being single, I have grown to like it. I do not think I shall ever marry."

She turned then, and stepped gingerly up the stairs, leaving her father sputtering a protest behind her. "I do need to rest, Father. May we not speak of this tomorrow?"

[xXx]

_**5 May 1818**_

Mickey, the tiger, nodded the direction of the Swan house. "Been watchin' it for ya, Mr. Cullen. Lotsa carriages've been comin' and goin'. Some of 'em even crested. Peers, maybe."

Edward flipped the boy a shilling and climbed into his curricle. Mickey tossed the reins of his matched chestnuts up to him and climbed to the back. It was an early afternoon, with a brisk breeze and plenty of Londoners out and about to take the air in the sunshine. Deliberately, Edward drove right by the Swan house. He slowed to see a gentleman leaving, tapping his hat jauntily atop a head of restless blond curls. Was it Newton from White's?

Ridiculous.

The wager had indeed been placed in White's Book, and that was likely one reason so many callers were being entertained at this address. Driving on, Edward concluded it was his own fault. If he had not felt compelled to go to White's the other evening, there wouldn't be a horde of the hopeful buzzing about that place now.

_Why does it matter, anyway?_ he wondered to himself. Aside from his curiosity in how his friend's money was being spent, he had no possible connection to the family. At all. Yet still, he allowed his mind to be distracted far too often...

"Mr. Cullen? Wanta watch the road, sir! Yer not drivin' reg'lar."

The alarmed humor in the lad's voice called Edward back to the business at hand, and he took his horses firmly in hand all the way to the bank. He had a meeting regarding his own finances, so he did. Pondering the finances of a young woman whom he had barely been introduced to was a waste of time and resources. Marc had taught him better than that.

[xXx]

"No, I'm not staying. They're gone; I'm going," Isabella insisted to her maid. She pointed to a pelisse and Mallory picked out the accompanying bonnet. Lined in tightly woven primrose cotton, it was cool but would provide her mistress with enough shade to keep her nose from becoming too tanned. The color matched Miss Swan's walking dress perfectly. Indeed, she looked like a spring flower. Not that Mallory would say so; it would upset her mistress. She contented herself with smilingly contentedly at the picture created by her own hands.

"Come along, then, Mallory. You're ready, surely?" Once safely out of the house and in the barouche on the way to Hyde Park, Isabella relaxed. "I am sorry, Mallory. I shouldn't have been so abrupt. But I had to get out of there." She inhaled deeply and watched the people as her coachman maneuvered through Mayfair to Hyde Park. The fresh air was not as fresh as it would be at home, but it was greatly preferable to the smell of woolen coats and boot polish that had permeated her parlor all afternoon. Instead, there was some scent of green to the air, the hint, too, of breeze-blown leaves. Small dogs and small children added their presence to the open, pleasant scene as the barouche came to a slow stop near a gate.

"Well, miss? Where would you like to drive?"

"Nowhere," Isabella decided. "I'll walk."

It was grand to decide to do something and just _do_ it. Neither Greene, at the reins, nor Mallory had the authority to gainsay her. "I'll be back within the half-hour," she told her maid. "So you may drive about, if you wish. I just want to be alone for a while."

"Miss! We're not in the country," Mallory whispered harshly. "You're not at the manor and –"

"And what? I'm going to be accosted on the walking paths, surrounded by a hundred Londoners?"

Mallory's blush was visible even in the bright light of the afternoon. Isabella shook her head. "I appreciate your concern. But really, I'll be fine."

_Alone!_ She was alone and walking and not obligated to talk to anyone...excepting people to whom she had been previously introduced. Mrs. Stanley, for one. The Honorable Miss Higgenbotham, for another. The Marks brothers approached, bowing together like the twins they were. "Come, Miss Swan, we insist that you walk with us," they were saying when –

"No, I'm afraid that Miss Swan is riding with me," came a familiar voice that Isabella hadn't known she would remember.

"Mr. Cullen," Isabella gasped, surprised and out-of-reason pleased to see him. "I had not expected you...quite so soon," she said, trying to regain her poise over the inexplicable skip of her heartbeat. How extraordinary that she would be _delighted_ to see the gentleman that had gossiped about her sisters. Still, she saw the humor in the green eyes, the rumpled quality of the hair under the shining brown hat, and the beckoning hand and she gave him her own, without question. "Thank you."

"Miss Swan," the Marks brothers protested in unison.

Mr. Cullen flashed her a question; she shook her head. He nodded and, to the Marks brothers, said, "The Book's still open at White's, you know. Perhaps you might adjust your wager?"

Such a seeming non sequitur took Isabella quite by surprise as Mr. Cullen slapped the reins against his horses. There was no time to inquire, though, over the boisterous regret that followed her leave-taking and the adjustment to riding in close quarters with the only man she had _not_ found cumbersome since her arrival in Town. She just stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

He did not provide one. Instead, he said, "Miss Swan! I did not dare to dream that I'd have the honor of driving you about Hyde Park. Thank you for allowing me to rescue you." His tone was playful, and the glance he slid to her was alight with amusement as well.

Her smile was involuntary. "I had not considered myself in need of rescuing, but I thank you."

Brushing a windblown leaf from the brown superfine of his jacket, he pursed his lips. "Oh, you needed rescuing all right, Miss Swan. Trust me, an inhabitant of White's. You needed rescuing."

He was about to pass a familiar barouche, but they both heard: "Miss Swan!"

"Stop, please," Isabella directed. "It is my maid." She felt her skin heat with some embarrassment to be in this situation.

He tapped her gently on the arm. "Please, Miss Swan, don't desert me just yet."

After a quizzical look, she merely turned to Mallory. "This is Mr. Cullen, our neighbor. Perhaps you remember seeing him at the wedding?"

Mallory's eyes narrowed a little. "Yes, miss. You introduced him to your father."

"Please allow me to take Miss Swan home, if you would?" Mr. Cullen interrupted. "The crowd at your door has been rather intimidating and I had wished to spend time getting to know your mistress better."

"Mr. Cullen!" Isabella didn't know whether to be diverted or outraged at his sheer – presumption.

Mallory flashed the man a look but did not deign to answer him. Isabella held up one hand. "Truly, Mallory, it will be fine. My father might even be pleased. I will come to no harm with Mr. Cullen."

She could feel a sense of awkward tension coming from that gentleman but ignored it as his curricle pulled forward, beyond her barouche. He touched his hat to her. "Thank you, Miss Swan. I appreciate your faith in me. I would like to drive once more around the Park, if you do not find it objectionable, and then I'll be happy to take you home."

"Am I being given a choice?" she finally managed to inquire.

The look he gave her was astonished. "Of course! If you wish to return immediately, we can certainly do so." He even started seeking a way off the avenue that would lead to one of the exterior gates.

She eyed him from under the shade of her bonnet's brim. Was he in earnest? Yes, he did seem to be – so much so that even his voluminous banter was silenced. His jaw was set as if he were thinking hard about something. His hands were relaxed on the reins. Indeed, he seemed to be a man who had nothing to prove to anyone.

Just before he made the final turn that would take them out of the Park, though, she put a hand on his arm. "No. Let's take that turn about the Park, Mr. Cullen. I have a couple of questions for you."

A smile – was it triumphant? Did it matter? – put a dimple in one of his cheeks as he turned to follow her directions. "Ask away, Miss Swan."

Unprepared for such an open countenance and easy acceptance, she had to marshal her thoughts. While she did so, they passed under a large oak tree that temporarily cooled the open curricle. Mr. Cullen even slowed the horses as they drove under the spreading branches, in full leaf.

"Well?" he prompted when she delayed.

The questions were connected. "What is the Book at White's and what wager might the Marks brothers need to adjust?"

She watched, darkly fascinated as a deep red crept up from his high collar to his cheeks. "You have not been in Town long, Miss Swan?"

"Not quite a week, Mr. Cullen."

"Then you are not yet aware, I gather, of the diversions of the local men about town."

"Apparently not. Should I be?"

He actually winced, but kept his eyes on the lane in front of them, the better to dodge the stray runaway dog and single horseman. "Probably not, Miss Swan. But the Book is a, well, a collection of wagers."

"Wagers? On racing or some such?" She turned slightly in her seat to have a better view of her companion, for he seemed to be diligently avoiding looking at her while he drove his matched pair of chestnut mares.

"Yes... The gentlemen at White's place wagers on a great many things. Some are races, but other things," he added with a smile, "are entirely frivolous."

_And races aren't frivolous?_ Isabella wondered, her eye tracing the line of Mr. Cullen's jaw as it relaxed with his returning easy humor. She felt herself relax as well, just because he seemed to be doing so. _Extraordinary_. "So there is a large volume at White's where gentlemen record their wagers. What does that have to do with the Marks brothers?"

Mr. Cullen pursed his lips before saying, "Allow me, if you would, Miss Swan, to stop at the next shady spot we come across, so I can better give you my attention."

[xXx]

_Now, Edward, you just keep your foot out of your mouth,_ he admonished himself. After making sure the horses were content, he shifted to meet Miss Swan's steady, honest gaze. With a pensive smile, he gave up keeping his foot out of his mouth. It wasn't going to happen. Not with her compelling him to entire truthfulness.

Many ladies would be unable to sit in such stillness. Miss Swan wasn't disengaged but rather it was as if she was learning what she could without resorting to prompting him. Most ladies he had met in his travels required speech. Sound. Senseless streams of chatter that filled quiet moments but meant nothing. They would be teasing him. Telling him what a skilled driver he was. Oh, he didn't know London ladies, perhaps, but he knew Society ladies in other places. They were all of a piece.

He didn't know how to begin, though. Here. With her.

She helped, with that slight lift of her brow under the brim of her bonnet. "Well?"

"Your sisters' marriages were noted at White's, Miss Swan." She nodded without comment. He continued. "And, as you are the only single Swan daughter, it is presumed that you have a settlement as large as your sisters."

"And this is speculated upon?"

"Yes, I am afraid it is. And seeing as how your sisters' marriages were so, ah, rapid, the conjecture is that yours will soon follow."

"Really?" Miss Swan's gaze never wavered and he disciplined himself not to avoid it. "And this is common knowledge at White's?"

Though heat flushed his cheeks, there in the shade of the overhanging branches, Edward acknowledged that to be the case. "I do apologize for any part I had in that," he added.

"You?" Unexpectedly, she smiled a little. A little cynical at the corners of her lips, but a smile was a smile. "What part was that, Mr. Cullen?"

Reins still caught in one hand, Edward dropped his focus to them, rearranging the various straps. "I, ah, told them I had seen you, Miss Swan." It took some effort for him to keep his eyes from tracing the lines of her legs as they were outlined by the light yellow fabric of her gown, however, while discussing such a topic.

Her amusement, again, was unanticipated. She chuckled, and he was compelled to meet her gaze again. "Your report must have been unexpectedly complimentary, Mr. Cullen. I have been besieged by suitors."

[xXx]

Isabella glanced past Mr. Cullen toward the grassy open space between two walking paths nearby. "My father," she went on to say to her companion, "has been less than pleased."

She was surprised when he took her hand in his. "If I have caused you any undue alarm, Miss Swan, I beg your forgiveness."

"Not at all," she said immediately. "The distress is entirely my father's." It may have been improper, but she was no schoolroom girl. Not anymore. No, she allowed Mr. Cullen to hold her hand, right there in broad daylight where anyone might see.

He was obviously puzzled. "Your father's? How so?"

From somewhere, mirth rose to the surface. "I informed him that I have no intention of marrying anyone, Mr. Cullen. You can make a wager on _that_ in White's Book, if you're so inclined. But for now, please take me home."

"Isabella – Er, Miss Swan!" He did not lose any time extricating his fingers from her own, she noted, as he turned to urge the chestnuts out of the shade and onto the lane. "I would beg you to reconsider," he began in a hurried, almost breathless manner. "If my untoward remarks and ill-timed, ah, complimentary descriptions have come so far amiss I shall endeavor to make it right in any way possible, Miss Swan. I shall."

They turned to the broader avenue and Mr. Cullen drove in the direction of the gate. She took a deep breath, trying to find the pleasant scents that had so delighted her, earlier. "I think," she mused out loud, "I think I shall return home."

His gaze upon her face was tangible. "That's where I am taking you now, Miss Swan. Home."

"No, home to Lincolnshire. I don't belong here."

"But you've only just arrived!" he protested, slipping out to the main thoroughfare and leaving Hyde Park behind them.

"How would you know?" She turned to stare at him while he drove. "And for that matter, Mr. Cullen, how did you come to know about my sisters? And the money left to my father by his uncle? And why have you been following me?" For that is what it suddenly felt like, to her. This man, unknown to her before the wedding, had appeared out of nowhere, yet he knew her family, their financial circumstances, and he had even rented a house just doors from the house her father had taken for the Season. He rode past her house often enough that she had _noticed_ him even before the wedding. Enough so that she had come to look for him from the parlor window before and since. "Did you," she went on as the thought occurred to her, "put _yourself_ down in that Book you were referring to at White's? Were the Marks brothers implying..." Her mouth clamped shut and dropped open in quick succession. "Did you think to follow Benjamin Cheney and Jasper Whitlock?"

"Who?"

"I told you I am not marrying. So if you're out to marry a sudden fortune, Mr. Cullen, you'll have to find yourself another credulous female."

"You've entirely mistaken me, Miss Swan," he sputtered. She glanced to him and saw that his skin was white under his sportsman's tan.

She was alarmed at his sudden pallor, but gave no sign. She still didn't know what to think. "Have I?"

His lips firmed and his spine straightened. His color returned. "You have. I will just have to figure out how to prove it to you."

The rest of the drive was uncomfortably silent. Mr. Cullen handed her down from the curricle and saw her to the door. "Miss Swan..." he began, removing his hat before she went inside. "If I can ever be of any service to you, to amend this situation, I am at your disposal."

With the barest of curtsies, Isabella whisked by him and into the foyer. Inside, she was shaking with a range of feelings to which she could put no names.

_**19 May 1818**_

"No, miss. I'm not going," Mallory whispered to her on the darkened staircase. "Mr. Swan left instructions."

Isabella clenched her jaw. "He did? Then I'll go speak to Greene myself. Perhaps he will do as I request."

The clock below chimed three times. Mallory waited for the sound to die off before she protested again. "Miss Isabella. Your father gave instructions that you were not to return to Lincolnshire."

"I will not stay here to be speculated over and courted for something so wholly unconnected with me as this ridiculous fortune," Isabella hissed, trying not to be overly loud. It was intolerable. In the two weeks since her conversation with Edward Cullen, Isabella had tried without success to repel suitors. Unfortunately, even at her most taciturn, she was praised and courted and asked to walk out, drive out and go to the theatre with a "large family party." Invitations she had spurned. Her father had done all in his power, but he had not yet resorted to making her leave the house against her wishes.

So she had stayed indoors. Doing needlework by the parlor window. She was not, she reminded herself hourly, watching for Edward. _Mr. Cullen_. Of course not. He had never returned, anyway, so she was fairly certain she had been correct about his motivations. No reparations had he come prepared to make her for the runaway-wagon of a life he had set under her feet without her knowledge or consent.

All she wanted, truly, was to leave London behind her forever and languish in Lincolnshire. She was a wealthy woman in her own right, now. She could stay with her father, keep house for him, and then...when he had passed as all mortals must...she would be the lady of the manor and completely independent.

It was possible. Almost respectable, even. And if the prospect were a bit lonely-seeming, what of that? Since her mother had passed away, her whole life had felt lonely.

"I'm going to ask Greene myself," Isabella told her maid. Helpless, the other woman stepped aside and watched her mistress ascend to the upper story, where the coachman slept. Who knew how he would react to such an intrusion?

Isabella felt the difference immediately, on the upper floor. The ceiling was very low over her head and the doors were much closer together, here. Suddenly, she was confused. Was Greene ensconced in a solitary chamber or did he share? And how bad would it be, really, to wake him?

_Well, I will not know unless I try_. She knocked. Twice. Eventually, someone was swearing behind the door and Isabella felt an involuntary grin on her face before she schooled it into submission.

"What?" demanded a shadowy face in the crack of the open door.

"It's Isabella Swan. I wish to speak to Greene."

The word that fell from the man's mouth was not something Isabella could remember ever hearing. It made her want to laugh, but she managed not to as the man offered her an apology and moved back, letting the door swing open.

"Miss Isabella? Um, Miss Swan?" Greene rasped. He was, by the light of the nearly full moon that came through the small dormer window, a pale shape against a dark blanket. He drew it around himself as he stepped to the narrow door. "What is it, miss? Is the master all right? Anyone ill?"

"No, Greene. I just wanted to ask you to ready yourself to drive me home. Back to Lincolnshire."

The man stepped away, shaking his head almost violently. "No, miss. I can't do that. Mr. Swan would let me go without a character if I as much as took you out of Mayfair."

"But –!"

He came near again, waving to the man with whom he shared the room to return to bed. "I'm that sorry, miss. I am. But I can't."

Frustrated, but more determined than she had been, Isabella accepted his answer and left the floor to return to her room. Refusing her maid's assistance, she sent Mallory away. Then, she pulled her available funds from some sundry places she had stashed them and tucked them into a reticule. It wasn't a fortune, certainly, but it should be enough to get home.

Time. She would need time. Well. It was foolish, but the old "stuffed nightcap and bundle of clothing under the bedclothes" trick should work. Then, for a few hours at least, Mallory would likely think she was sleeping (since she had been up so very late) and that would buy her, Isabella, time to get well on the ninety-mile road to Lincolnshire. And ten more miles into the western part of the county and she would be home.

A few things rolled into a small work bag and she slipped out of her room. Just about half past three. Out the front door, closing it quietly behind her. So far, so good.

Green Street was a good enough neighborhood that she was unafraid, really, of cutpurses on the short walk past the few doors and cobbled street that separated her door from his. For she was going to insist that Mr. Edward Cullen fulfill his promise to her by taking her out of London!

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**This is just a reminder to please check my profile for information about the April "donation drive" via the Fandom Gives Back. April is Autism Awareness Month and I am contributing to the fandom story compilation with a one-shot YOU, my readers, voted for me to write! It's called CONQUEROR, and it's been given a terrific banner by author and banner-maker, evieeden. Please consider checking out the FGB blog (link on my profile) for more information. Thank you! ~LJ**


	3. Part the Third

_**A/N: Thanks so much for your kind remarks and the tweets and rec's! Here is the penultimate offering of this story.**_

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_**19 May 1818**_

Edward was just removing his neckcloth when he heard the pounding on the front door. He left his room, bare of foot and now bare of throat, to lean over the upper rail and see who it was that had the audacity to come by at this hour.

"Please, I must see Mr. Cullen. I am Miss Isabella Swan and –"

Edward's heart jumped into his throat. Isabella? Was she in danger? "Bring her in," he directed the butler, Jefferson. As she entered, Edward inhaled deeply, unutterably relieved to see that she was, apparently, well and unharmed. "Miss Swan?" He started down the stairs, but the shocked look from Jefferson stopped him on the third step down from the landing. He wanted to blurt out, "I've missed you," but caught himself just in time. "What brings you here at this hour?" He waved Jefferson away. The butler, being a good fellow, faded into the shadows beyond the high entrance to the drawing room.

"Yes, Mr. Cullen. You promised to be at my disposal if I needed help."

He descended five more steps before Jefferson's long nose emerged from the shadows. "Help, Miss Swan?" Dressed in a dark traveling cloak, she appeared altogether in good health, to him. Some agitation, yes, but...

"Yes. I would like you to take me back to Lincolnshire." Withdrawing a diamond-shaped reticule from under her cloak, she added, "I can pay for a traveling coach and accommodations for the road."

He relaxed then and leaned heavily on the polished oak banister. "What happened to your coachman? Is he indisposed?"

She darted a furtive glance to where the butler still lingered and came to the foot of the stairs. "My father has forbidden me to go. You said you would help me. I am asking you to fulfill your promise. That is all."

He was torn. Oh, he would help her; no doubt in his mind about that. This seemed just too perfect to be real. But no, he wasn't dreaming the coins he heard in her reticule. And he wasn't imagining, exhausted though he was, the mismatched boot toes that peeked from beneath the embroidered hem of her rose-tinted gown. One toe was shiny patent leather, the other was matte. He was not going to point that out to her, however. Instead, he said, "You shall find me as good as my word, Miss Swan. I'll be down directly."

"Shall I go outside to see if I can hire a hack for the first leg of our journey?"

"That won't be necessary. I can get us there. Jefferson?"

"Yes, sir?"

"See to Miss Swan's comfort while she waits. Thank you." Turning, he took the stairs two at a time and pelted to his chambers. He had not yet acquired a valet, so he had no one to assist in packing a satchel with a change of clothes and some toiletries. He did not take the time to shave; Miss Swan would surely forgive him his whiskers. Then, he went down the servants' stairs at the back of the hall to his office and retrieved most of his available cash. Jefferson would explain to the rest of his staff after daybreak, he was sure.

He drafted a note, left it with further directions, and put it on top of his desk. That should do it.

"All right, Miss Swan," he said softly upon entering the drawing room. "Let's go off to my coach." Jefferson came, a question in his eye. "See to the business on my desk," Edward instructed the butler. "When morning is more, ah, obvious."

"Yes, sir. Have a safe journey. Miss Swan, good evening."

As they descended the front steps, Edward offered Miss Swan his arm. She took it after only the barest hesitation. "Thank you," she said quietly as he handed her up into his coach not too many minutes later. "I appreciate your efficiency."

He grinned at her before closing the door. "I'm also your driver again, so I hope you are content with a lonely journey."

"I am. Thank you."

He paused just a moment and looked at her through the window. "I do want the story behind this, Miss Swan, when we've put London behind us."

"Of course. And please," she said, "call me Isabella. It is silly to be so formal at this hour."

"I'm –"

"Edward, I know."

Of course she knew; she always had, it seemed. It warmed him considerably to hear his Christian name. "If you need to stop, rap loudly right there," he said, pointing to a panel. "I'll pull over as soon as may be. It's just the two of us you know," he cautioned, peering through the gloom of the carriage. "Your reputation will be in shreds before we get to Lincolnshire."

"I am not worried about my reputation. Are you worried about yours, sir?"

"_Edward_. No, not in the least."

"Then let us be off before it gets any later."

[xXx]

They traveled past dawn on the Old North Road. Until they were well clear of London, Isabella had continually poked her head out a window to make sure that no one was following them. Now, they were approaching a posting house that seemed to have not a few traveling coaches already surrounding its amply-windowed edifice.

She felt the springs on Mr. Cullen's – _Edward_' – coach bounce as he leapt from the box. "Isabella? Would you like to stretch your legs before we go inside? I want to get the horses fed and watered. They'll need to rest."

"Rest? Oh, of course," she said after a moment. She hadn't considered that, she realized. "You don't think anyone will come for us, do you?" she asked, following him around as he unhitched the horses. The jingle of the assorted rings and fastenings sounded sharp in the cooler air of morning. "I would not wish for you to get into trouble on my account."

She had not realized how close she was standing to him until he looked down at her. "It is possible they'll come, Isabella. This is the most popular northern route out of London, but," he went on, with a conspiratorial grin, "it's also the most favored route for eloping couples on their way to Scotland. So, our presence will be unremarked."

"Oh!"

While he saw to the horses, she went into the inn and requested a breakfast. "For two," she told the red-cheeked woman who asked.

The woman's muddy brown eyes – the same shade as her cap – managed to twinkle. "Well now, you're in luck, you are. Most of our customers will be leaving here, soon." A bawdy wink followed. "Mind you, most of 'em arrived before midnight!"

By the time a table was cleared and a couple hurried out of the inn, Edward joined her inside. "Everything all right?" he asked quietly, scanning the numerous, furtive, eager faces in the common area.

"Indeed. We should have our breakfast shortly."

"Good."

The odors of ale and stewed tea, as well as frying bacon and rising bread wafted with interest under her nose as the two of them were seated near enough the back as to make such smells unexceptional after a few minutes. "All right," Edward said after tea had been provided. "Tell me."

"What?"

"You promised you would tell me what was going on once we were on the road," he reminded her.

She took a sip of the stiff tea and tried hard not to make a face at it. "Ah."

He yawned. Apologized. She yawned and did likewise. The two of them both yawned simultaneously and Isabella couldn't help the laughter that followed.

"All right, all right," she finally said, catching her breath. As the food came, bit by bit on plates clean enough to squeak on the bottom, but still bearing drops of water on top, Isabella explained why she was leaving for Lincolnshire on her own. He nodded slowly as she went along, and he asked several questions about how to get to Swan Manor and landmarks and the like. It made perfect sense to her, for he was driving.

He yawned and tucked away the last of his breakfast. "Did you get us rooms?" he slurred out after wiping his mouth.

She blinked. "Uh, no..."

With a lopsided smile, he said, "Isabella, I need to sleep. I was up all day yesterday, in the saddle, and have been driving all night. I don't mind," he went on, hand up to forestall her instinctive protest, "but I need a rest as much as the horses."

"I – I can do that, surely."

He paused and rose to help her out of her chair. "I have never doubted you," he murmured, his arm going behind her as he walked her to where the far-too-knowing innkeeper waited.

His praise warmed Isabella enormously. So much so that she didn't protest when the innkeeper made a big show of finding her _two whole rooms_, rather than the more common _one_.

She paid for the breakfast and the rooms up front, so that they could leave without further fuss. When Edward rejoined her after checking on his horses, she was able to assure him that all was in hand.

He smiled again, the tender smile he had shown her often over their meal. Taking her hand, he kissed it lightly. "Thank you, Isabella. I cannot remember a journey I've enjoyed more."

She blushed, slipped into her room, and barely managed to get so far as to loosen her stays before dropping off to sleep on the lumpy, ill-made bed. The smile never left her face.

[xXx]

Edward awakened with a headache and a sore backside. He had never felt more in sympathy with a coachman than he did just then. In his hurry, he had forgotten his shaving kit. He looked absolutely dissolute, but no matter. A check out the window told him it was well into the afternoon. They had perhaps traveled half the necessary distance before stopping. It was likely the horses would do well enough for the rest of the trip. There would be a proper stable at journey's end, with a good, proper currying and a long rest thereafter.

"I could use much the same," he mused out loud as he dressed.

Coming out of the room, he knocked softly on Isabella's door. "Are you up, Miss Swan? Your carriage awaits."

No answer was forthcoming so, smiling with apologetic anticipation, he tried the door and – finding it open – entered.

No one was there. The bed was smooth, there were no boots, bonnets or any sign of Miss Isabella Swan.

Alarmed, he spun immediately to pelt down the narrow stairs to the first floor. She wasn't there, either. He lifted his hand. "Excuse me?" he asked of the reed-thin fellow who wore an apron near the kitchens. "Have you seen Miss Swan?"

"Who, sir?"

"Tall, dark hair and eyes, wearing a rose-colored gown and mismatched boots?"

The aproned innkeeper rubbed his cheek with large, knobby knuckles. "Oh, eh. Yeh. I saw her. She left."

"What?" Fear and worry burst within Edward' chest. "Where? When?"

"'Bout half an hour or so. Went right out there, like that. Paid for two rooms. You really _were_ in the other one, eh?"

But Edward wasn't listening; he was already out in the mid-afternoon sunshine. His carriage was empty, so, on a hunch, he went to the stables and found her there, apparently making friends with one of his mares.

"Miss Swan? Are you ready to continue?"

That sense of assurance he had noticed in her was fully in evidence as she turned to meet him. "Not quite yet, sir."

_Sir_, was it? That did not bode well. He held his arm out to her and she came to him readily enough. So the balance was now equal. "What is troubling you?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes. You never answered my questions from more than a fortnight past. I would like answers before we go farther."

"Would it not be better –?"

"No. Now. My reputation, as you say, will undoubtedly be sullied, but I have not yet been gone for a full day. Indeed, I could be home by this evening and, since I am not out much anyway, no one need be the wiser."

"Fair enough," he allowed, leading her outside to walk, away from too-curious eyes and ears. "You asked me, if I recall, if I was out to marry a credulous heiress, or something?"

"And a few other things, yes."

"Let us say, in the interest of time, that that was the main question you had. And the answer is that I am not in the least interested in marrying a credulous heiress, no."

There was a noisy squawk as a chicken was caught and killed for the Inn's evening menu, interrupting their conversation. He deliberately turned their path back to the stable so he could collect the horses and bring them to the carriage. He glanced occasionally at her face as they chose careful steps in the grass and dirt. Her lips were pursed, but he couldn't see her eyes, as they were shielded by the obnoxious brim of that bonnet. She gave him no response though, and he was left to wonder if he had spent the past weeks being a complete fool.

[xXx]

Orange flashes of sunset bounced off purple clouds as they reached Lincolnshire. Isabella's stomach tightened. She had done it! Left London and made it all the way back home. Strange, she had wanted to very much to go to Town, to have her Season as her sisters had. For years, she had been waiting. And after residing at a fashionable Mayfair address for three weeks, she was gone again.

She rapped on the proper panel inside the coach to get Edward's attention. Soon enough, he slowed and pulled them from the main road, across a dip and to a darkening meadow. "Is everything all right?" he called as he bounced off the box.

"Yes," she replied, opening the door. He helped her down and she was able to stretch her legs. He did not release her hand and she did not slip it from his gloved clasp. She felt like delaying her arrival at Swan Manor, actually. She wished to just stroll for a while, here, by the side of the road.

"I meant to recompense you for your time," she said at last.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Not at all necessary, I assure you."

Confused at the humor in his voice, she pushed her bonnet off her head so that it bounced on her upper back, held on by its silk ribbons around her neck. "I insist! It would not do to be dependent upon someone so wholly unconnected with me."

"Ah, but I am fulfilling a promise, no? So, allow me to do so. Besides," he went on with a smile that struck her somehow as cozy, of all things, "you already fed me breakfast and paid for my room at the inn."

She stopped and looked him in the eye. "You're confusing me."

He didn't seem at all offended. Indeed, he tilted his head a little to one side and seemed rather pleased. That he had managed to capture both her hands in his own was not noticed until he squeezed them lightly at the fingertips.

She blushed. Frowned. Belatedly pulled her hands away, remembering that they were alone here in a darkening landscape and what did she really know of this man, anyway?

"What?" he said, letting her back away, which she appreciated. The smile left his face, but not his voice. "Having second thoughts?"

"About leaving? No. I'm just trying to understand you."

The smile did leave his voice at last as he swung his hands behind his back, presumably to clasp them as she had sometimes seen her father do when he talked business. "Is that important? Understanding me?"

"Yes!"

"Good." He turned and started striding back to the coach and the tramping horses.

"Hey!" she called. "What are you doing?"

His voice floated back to her. "I'm going to get you something to sit down on, because this could take a while."

Later, Isabella considered that she must have looked ludicrous, standing on a patch of grass near a dip on the side of the Old North Road, arms akimbo, bonnet dangling down her back, mouth hanging open in incredulity. Stand there she did though, as Edward pulled a woolen blanket from beneath one of the carriage seats.

"Make yourself comfortable," he invited, shaking it out and placing it on the ground.

Seeing as how he was refusing to say or do anything else until she complied, Isabella sighed loudly and did as he had bid her, settling on one side of the blanket and finally remembering to untie her bonnet. It was getting dark, and she didn't wish to be here all night.

Hands behind his back again, he stood at the edge of the blanket directly opposite her own. "You wish to understand me. Let me see if I can help," he said. His teeth flashed white in the gathering gloom. "My name is Edward Cullen. I was born in the village of Roromore, in Scotland, in 1783. My family was still reclaiming land from the English, and I left them to take to the seas when I was twelve."

"So young?" Isabella blurted. "Didn't your family have a problem with that?"

He shook his head and folded himself to sit on the blanket, still a few feet away from her. "No. I was a mouth to feed that could feed itself, so I went. And," he went on, his voice softening, "they all died of a disease that swept that area the following year. So...I stayed at sea."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. It was all but dark, now, and whispering seemed appropriate. "So you're a sailor? You haven't ever seemed like one."

"That's where your other questions get answered, I'm guessing, Isabella," he said. "I met a man when I was fifteen. His name was Marcus Swan."

She gasped. "My father's uncle!"

"Indeed."

"Oh," she said on a long breath. It seemed to make sense, all of a sudden. "So," she guessed, pushing herself up so she could pace and think at the same time. "So, you worked with Great Uncle Marcus and when he died and you wanted to see what happened to his fortune? Is that why you came to the wedding?" she wondered sharply, turning and staring at the starlit shadow rising to his feet again. "Is that why you agreed to take me north? Are you trying to get back some part of his fortune? Did you think that he should have left it to you, since you had worked with him and he had no other family?"

By now, she had worked herself up and was already leaving the blanket on the grass and hurrying back to the road. She would demand he take her to the nearest posting house and would go by post the rest of the way in the morning.

"Isabella!" Booted feet pounded the ground behind her, but she ignored him and climbed up into the coach unaided. "You didn't let me finish."

"What can you possibly say?" She was numb, wanting to be mad but unable to summon that emotion. What she felt was something like _betrayal_.

He leaned into the carriage, his arms braced on either side of the opening where the door would be. "I can say," he said softly, "that I was not expecting Marc to leave me a shilling. I only wanted to know, as you said, where it had gone. I told you that morning, if you recall, that I was curious."

It was a truth and Isabella nodded in the dark coach. "You did. But that doesn't explain..." Explain why she felt – unexpectedly – agreeable with him.

"So, I wasn't a sailor. I was a merchant. When Marc died, I kept at it for another year, but then I sold out." The horses started tramping some more, their restless motions rocking the heavy traveling coach. Edward sighed. "Look. It's dark again and we're still not at our destination. The mares need to get moving and they'll be hungry, soon. Do you trust me?"

Isabella blinked. "Trust you? I can't even see you." When he chuckled, she relaxed against the cushioned seat of his carriage. "So, you're a sold-out merchant who came to London because he was curious, rented a house, and now what?"

"That's what I want you to trust me for. I have to get the girls moving, up there, but..." He stopped and stepped back from the doorway as if to close it. "If you trust me, I'd like to take a detour."

When she didn't answer, he closed the coach door. She threw down the sash on the window. "All right!"

"Good!"

The coach lurched off and Isabella grinned into the night. If her reputation was going to be shattered – and it was! – at least it was through what was turning out to be a grand adventure.

[xXx]

"Not much farther now," Edward called back to Isabella. He was pulling off the road and heading a little northeast. Oh, he had heard her directions, certainly, to Swan Manor, but that was not where he was taking her. It was a huge risk but he had learned the value of risk taking in all his years with Isabella's great uncle. There would be a reward, certainly. Two. One tangible, one intangible. The tangible would be his without risk, and so it was a steady sort of investment.

But the intangible... That had kept his mind racing, his nights hot and his daylight hours feverishly occupied for a fortnight.

He fought the urge to lash his tired mares for the last mile. He was not a man who abused his animals, certainly. It was just the sudden urgency that speeded his heart, making him more restless than he could remembering being in over a decade.

"We're here," he called. The home before him was of relatively new construction, and the small farm that surrounded it was not the work of several generations but it was his. The door opened and a man came out with a torch, which he lit at the foot of the steps.

"Mr. Cullen! You're back so soon!"

"Edward?" Isabella called. She was opening the coach door and that wouldn't do at all. "Where are we?"

He caught her hand and held it as she emerged from the carriage. "We are at a pleasant, relatively new English country manor, Miss Swan."

"Are we staying here for the night? Is something wrong with your horses?" She was scanning what she could see of his home, though. It was obvious in the concentration on her face.

"Do you like it?"

"Charming, of course." Then, she froze. "Wait. You're not," her voice faltered and the dark eyes widened perceptibly. "You're not married, are you?"

Laughing, he could no longer resist the urge to pull her, at last, into his arms. "No, my dear Isabella Swan, great niece of my dearest friend, may God grant him peace. But if you'll do me the honor of allowing me to salvage both our reputations, I hope to be married. As soon as may be."

"But I thought –" she began, a dimple appearing in one cheek, "I thought you had sold out?"

"Well. I left the management to a pair of younger men. I have a percentage, of course, but what I'd really like," he told her, uncaring of the new butler who retrieved the bags from the coach or the new groom who led the horses and vehicle away, "is to have a place of my own that is not on a ship, however luxurious. I would like a home of my own, a wife of my own, and a houseful of sons and daughters who will not, I hope, ever appear in White's Book."

"I don't know what to say."

In the bare light that reached them from the windows of the house, Edward cupped her face in his hands, giving her every opportunity to stop him if she wished. But she didn't, and he lowered his head to slowly touch his lips to hers. The hesitation, he expected. Unexpected, though, was the slow melting of her body against his own, the surrender of her parting lips, or the way he himself was lost...lost utterly in the arms of a woman he would never have dreamed he'd be so drawn to, only a month before.

"I think..." she said when she had to breathe. "I think I love you."

Relieved to the toes of his boots, he crushed her briefly to him. "Well, I know I love you, so I'll give you, oh, say, a week to catch up, eh?"

"A week?"

"Think you'd care to be married in a week?" he asked, turning to take her inside the house.

"My father!"

Then, inside the candlelit foyer of his house, Edward told her one more thing. "I had Jefferson take him a letter."

"To my father?"

"Yes. Declaring my intentions and with a referral to my man of business."

"What?" Inexplicably, his beloved's face fell and she stepped away. "No. Take me to Swan Manor, Edward. I want to go home." She turned to go and he couldn't seem to breathe.

He faltered as he tried to reach for her. "Now, I'm confused."

She did not turn to face him, but spoke to his front door. "I will not be told what to do. I do not want my decisions made for me. That's why I wished to remain independent."

Heart pounding within him, Edward didn't know how to answer her. "I apologize for my presumption," he finally said. "I was just hoping...that if I got you out of London, away from the horde from White's, and in your home county... Well, I just hoped that I'd have a chance. And, I couldn't spirit you off without informing your father. It would have been dishonorable."

At last, she turned, slowly, to face him, her face pale and intent. "So, you had this planned? All along?"

He took a step toward her, but only one. She was still out of his reach. "I – I've spent most of the last fortnight here," he admitted. "I wasn't in collusion with anyone. I was merely making sure all was in readiness. Isabella," he continued, "I'm accustomed to working with people and anticipating their wishes. I am persistent, honest, and creative. I realized, almost as soon as you left me at the church when your sisters were married, that I wanted _your_ wishes to be anticipated by _me_. Myself. And I have been working twice as hard as I expected here, worried all the while that one of those betting fellows – ridiculous men, like one of the Marks brothers – would have persuaded you to marry him. I do not intend to compel you to anything and if, right now, you want me to bring a cart around to drive you the five miles necessary to Swan Manor –"

"Five miles! That's all?"

He nodded slowly. "Aye, that's all. I will." Hardly daring to breathe, knowing too that his servants were all listening to this, or would hear the gossiped version of it before midnight, he felt sweat start to trickle down his spine. Biggest investment of his life could walk right out of it again if she wanted.

[xXx]

She wanted to weep. Tears burned behind her eyelids, her chest ached, and she felt more alone than she had since the first time her family had gone to London without her.

Yet. All of it, this time, had been for her. _For her! _ Not for anyone else. Not to make anyone appear to better advantage. Only for her. The youngest daughter. And for no other reason, apparently, than that he wanted to bring her here. To be his wife.

She still wanted to weep, but the tightness inside dissolved. "I never had a chance, did I?" she whispered, wiping at a rebellious tear that did sneak out and betray her. She tried to smile, though. Because, here at the end of her journey, she knew that she could walk away and leave him. He would let her. She had no doubt about it. And that freedom allowed her to remain captivated.

"I'm sorry," he said, stepping close and wiping her face dry with his thumbs. The wide green eyes were shadowed with concern for her. "I am. I didn't know it would upset you."

She shook her head. "How could you?" Then, she laughed. "We've known each other less than three weeks!"

"Is that all?" he mused softly, putting his arms around her.

"Indeed. And, by the way, I want you to take me home."

He stilled, as she intended. "Home?" he repeated, his voice wooden. His arms dropped. "As you wish."

He set about making arrangements while she waited near the door. "Do we need a chaperon?" he inquired, reappearing in the foyer.

"No, I think we will do well enough without."

He said nothing, but helped her up into the dogcart with a stony stillness about his face and body. It wasn't until they were on the road beyond his farm that she spoke to him.

"I do hope you brought a fresh neckcloth."

"Do you?" He slapped the reins a bit on the back of the older gelding pulling them along. "Why is that?"

"Because I wish for you to look well in the morning. You will be staying tonight, will you not? At my home?"

"Isabella?" He reined the horses in, not bothering to pull the cart from the road at this hour. They were surrounded by farmland for acres, and the full moon shone bright as morning, almost, around them. She had to laugh softly at the expression on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"If you wish to marry me, I wish you to stay at my home until my father arrives. I calculate that will be tomorrow, if he is not already there. I would like you to have a fresh neckcloth for the occasion."

"Marry you?"

She smiled. "If you'll have –"

The rest of her reply was lost as he dropped the reins entirely and took her in his arms. She was left in absolutely no doubt of his sincerity.

* * *

_**This being one of MY stories, there will of necessity be an epilogue. Soon. Keep watch. :)**_


	4. Part the Last

A/N: With many kind expressions of gratitude, I conclude this little romance.

* * *

**Epilogue**

_**2 July 1813**_

"We brought you a present, to make up for not going to Town," Alice told her. "It's a novel!"

Isabella's eyes widened. "A novel? Does Father know?"

"Shhh! It's a secret. He doesn't know a thing!"

Isabella immediately tucked the three volume set under her arm and ran up the front stairs to her room, even before she looked at the title. But then, she sat down on her bed and studied the books with all the voracious enthusiasm of a romantic. "_Pride and Prejudice_. By A Lady. Hmmm..." Cutting open to the first page, she began to read:

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

. . .

_**20 May 1818**_

Due to one thing and another, the clock in the front hall was chiming midnight when Isabella had managed to rouse the housekeeper to answer the door. She was mussed, a bit travel-weary, but smiling all over her face. "Mrs. Crowley? This is Mr. Edward Cullen, a neighbor of ours in Lincolnshire. He lives not five miles from the edge of our farm. Please see to it that he is shown to the front guest chamber. Have you heard from my father?"

"No, miss. Is everything all right?"

"Everything is wonderful."

"Miss Swan and I are to be married as soon as it can be arranged," Edward said, his smile evident through a two-day growth of beard. "If Mr. Swan arrives, please let him know that, first thing."

"Miss Isabella?" Mrs. Crowley, whispered. "Are you both quite right? Neither of you foxed or nothing?"

Isabella laughed, a full, rich sound that cheered Edward's heart considerably, exhausted as he was. "Everything is fine, as I said. A single woman in possession of a good fortune," she went on, sounding a bit tipsy in her weariness, Edward recognized, "might still want a husband, you know."

Under the watchful eye of the housekeeper, Isabella undressed and went to bed. When she awakened, her new fiancé and her father were already hard at work in the estate's offices. Mallory – who had come with Mr. Swan– was laughing and crying and seeing to her wedding clothes, and Mrs. Crowley informed her that the master had sent for the vicar. They were to be married by a special license. That very afternoon!

Though all of this had been arranged while she herself had been perfectly unconscious, Isabella stared out the front window, much as she had a little more than a month prior, with a smile on her face. She had had her Season. Had been to Town. Had even been swamped with suitors! Soon to be married to a man better than either of her sisters had found, she believed.

[xXx]

Much later that day, she was staring out a different window at a different sweep of greenery, five miles from Swan Manor, when she heard her name. "Isabella?"

"Over here." Edward joined her, holding her against his chest as they both looked out the window. "I was just thinking..."

"What?"

"We never would have met if it hadn't been for my great uncle's fortune."

She felt him chuckle into her hair. "Marc would be pleased in the value you got with his money."

"And you?"

"Well," he said, turning her slowly around so that she faced him, "There are a few items on the manifest I'd like to inspect..."

She was still blushing when they reached their chamber and shut the door.

_**THE END**_


End file.
